


Slow Dancing In A Burning Room

by nesrynfaliq



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, I'm in love with this pairing and it's ruining my life, and a tiny bit of domestic fluff, ladies, married, post ACOWAR, slow dancing and sin, this is literally just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8608429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nesrynfaliq/pseuds/nesrynfaliq
Summary: Mor coaxes Nesta to come to Rita’s with her but has to employ all of her charm and powers of persuasion to encourage her into a dance. Established Mor/Nesta; mixed POV, slightly NSFW. 
Letting out a long breath, Mor folds her arms and rests her chin on them, peering up at Nesta with her best, huge, irresistible begging eyes. The kind that would have anyone pleading to do her bidding just to make her stop looking at them like that, the kind that no-one can ever possibly say- “No,” Nesta says flatly, without looking up from the book she appears to be attempting to read by the dim lighting of Rita’s. Amren smirks. Mor scowls.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't edited this, it was just a little tumblr prompt that got massively out of hand so it might be a mess. but I don't even care at this point. I'm too in love with this pairing they're everything.

Mor collapses in a happy heap beside Nesta who raises an eyebrow at her over the rim of her glass that she’s delicately sipping. Amren sits opposite her and the two of them seem to be engaged in one of their typical comfortable silence sessions, which have been known to last hours. 

Glancing out over the dancers, Mor’s eyes linger on the couples she recognises. Feyre and Rhys are slow dancing on the fringes of the dancefloor, not in any proper hold, simply embracing, their lips meeting gently every few moments. Elain and Lucien are in the centre of the dancers and Elain is giggling as she stands on Lucien’s toes and allows him to steer. Cass and Azriel are nowhere to be seen, having disappeared to somewhere more private some time ago. 

Letting out a long breath, Mor folds her arms and rests her chin on them, peering up at Nesta with her best, huge, irresistible begging eyes. The kind that would have anyone pleading to do her bidding just to make her stop looking at them like that, the kind that no-one can ever possibly say- 

“No,” Nesta says flatly, without looking up from the book she appears to be attempting to read by the dim lighting of Rita’s. Amren smirks. Mor scowls. 

“Please?” Mor asks, shifting in closer to her wife and nuzzling affectionately against her neck the way she likes. 

“No.” Nesta repeats, very pointedly turning a page and just as pointedly not looking into Mor’s wide, pleading eyes.

 Amren gets up, giving Mor a smirk that very patently says ‘good luck’ before she slips off to the bar to get herself another drink, and flirt with the attractive female serving them, leaving the two of them alone together.  

“Come on, Nes,” she wheedles, setting her lip in a pronounced, miserable pout. 

“No,” Nesta says again, exhaling a long-suffering sigh this time, her eyes moving down over the page of her book but Mor is quite sure she stopped really reading the moment she got there. “You know the rule,” she says, “No dancing.” 

Mor groans and resists the urge to point out, for the thousandth time, that coming to a dance club with a rule of ‘no dancing’ is stupid. She settles instead for flopping onto the table in an outpouring of dramatic misery, head in her hands as she whines pathetically in mock agony at the stubbornness of her wife. Nesta responds by propping her book on top of Mor’s back and continuing to pretend to read with a broad smirk on her face. 

Mor growls at that and moves blindingly fast, snatching the book from her hands and tossing it onto the bench beside them, dipping in to kiss Nesta. Nesta however avoids the kiss, grumbling indignantly, “You lost my page, Mor.” 

“I’ll find it for you again later,” Mor promises, voice low and sultry as she takes Nesta’s chin between her thumb and forefinger and tilts her face back towards hers. 

Those beautiful, glittering ice blue eyes meet hers and this time Nesta allows the kiss. Mor takes her time, slow and deep and reverent. Even though they’ve been married for decades now and all of Velaris knows it, Nesta is rarely comfortable with being physically open in public. Which for the most part Mor doesn’t mind. But one of the things she particularly loves about Rita’s is that, nestled in their booth in this dark, quiet corner, she’s free to kiss Nesta as much as she likes. 

She can also slide her hand slowly up Nesta’s thigh until it’s slipping beneath her dress and wandering higher still. Nesta breaks the kiss, gasping, “Mor-” she begins, her voice a low groan, catching her wrist and stopping her. 

“You look beautiful tonight,” she interrupts quietly, voice low and rough. It’s a stunning dress, a deep, blood red, clean cut lines with black outlining and defining the sharp edges. The slit that bites deeply into it, travelling high up her wife’s legs is appealing as well. 

Nesta releases her wrist and Mor smirks and purrs in approval at being given permission to continue her exploration. She rests her head on her shoulder, eyes closing as she nuzzles at her neck, breathing her scent in deeply and savouring it. “Rules are made to be broken, love,” she murmurs in her ear, “One dance, one song. I’ll make it very worth-“ she breaks off with a low hiss of breath as her fingers travel higher still, Nesta’s thighs parting slightly beneath the table to allow her access, and she realises she’s not wearing any underwear.

Mor pulls back to look into her eyes, her own wide and tinged with the hunger that’s surged within her. “You were saying?” Nesta prompts, raising an eyebrow. Though she tries to suppress it a thin smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth as she looks at Mor.

Mor’s voice drops into a low, thrumming purr as she leans in and presses her lips against Nesta’s, pressing her next words into her mouth, “I love you.”

*****

Smiling, Nesta kisses Mor again, more deeply this time, letting her ease herself forwards until she’s half in her lap and half on the chair, fingers plunging deeply into her hair. Breathing hard, Nesta answers her wife’s words by slipping lithely out of the booth and extending her hand in invitation for Mor to join her.

Beaming, her smile bright enough to light up the dim room around them Mor eagerly slips her fingers into hers and allows her to gently draw her to her feet and lead her towards the dance floor, trailing reverently behind her, going where she leads them.

Nesta knows that Mor loves being in the centre of the crowd, in the thick of the dancers, her body moving without thought in perfect sync with those around her, weaving in and out of all of them as though she was made for those. She comes truly alive when music plays in a darkened room and she can just close her eyes and lose herself in it and the press of people around it. But Nesta is never that comfortable surrounded by a dense crowd of shifting bodies and she halts on the fringes and firmly stops in place, pulling Mor in against her.

The radiant smile on Mor’s face doesn’t falter at all, she just sweeps her arms around Nesta and tugs her in against her, following the last, rapid, pulsing beats of the song as her body instinctively moves with them. This has never failed to mesmerise her, in all their time together, she’s always loved watching the way her lover’s body moves to music. It seems as though it sings to her blood, as though it slips inside her and takes control of her and she lets it, lets it carry her away. Nesta has never been able to find that herself, though her appreciation has grown since her stiff, irritable lessons as a girl, thanks to Mor. But she will never stop being in love with the pure happiness and joy that blazes from her wife when they dance together.  

The song ends and Mor opens her eyes and looks questioningly at Nesta, who simply hums gently and remains in hold, sloppy as it is, more adequately described as cuddling than a true hold but it does what it needs to. Mor smiles at her again, dipping down for a quick kiss just before the next one starts.

This one is different to the last which was upbeat and lively. This song begins with notes that are drawn out and echo through her bones longer than they have any right to, drawn from the instruments they belong to as if by a lover, coaxed out with deep, startling intensity. The smile that spreads across Mor’s face is slow and rich, marble wrapped in smooth velvet and Nesta watches every movement she makes as though she means to memorise every detail in order to have Feyre paint this moment later on.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, despite the fact they’re on the very edge of the room, shrouded in protective shadows, Nesta burrows in against Mor, closing her eyes and breathing in her wife’s scent. The rich blend of cinnamon and citrus and the undercurrent of the cherry shampoo she likes is familiar to her as the sound of her own name and it always soothes her. She lets it flood her senses, drowning out everything but Mor, the heat of her skin against hers, the feel of their bodies melding together, her hands on her hips, slowly moving her in time with the music.

The song lifts into a chorus and Nesta looks up at Mor and a moment later her lips are on hers and she’s kissing her between the light pulses that flash across them for only a second before bathing them into an even darkness that seems deeper and blacker for the intense flash of light that came before it.

When she draws away from the kiss, Nesta turns Mor and presses her back against her, holding her close, any whisper of space that might have been left between them gone completely now. The music mixed with her wife’s scent is intoxicating and she just wants to live in this moment, to let it move through her and consume her and Mor until there’s only them. Mor pauses in her arms, a little stunned by the sudden change of pace but she sinks into it almost at once.

Her hands wander slowly over Mor’s sides, pulling her closer still, unable to stop exploring every inch of her body she can reach. The music swells around them, consuming every couple on the floor and that sweeps them away as well. As though they’re all caught in a river’s current, the music bears them along with it, making them rise and fall as it does, every movement striking the inescapable beat which pounds beneath the melody.

“You’re incredible,” Mor groans as Nesta leans down to softly nuzzle at her neck.

Nesta just smirks at that, “I know,” she purrs and Mor looses a slightly breathless laugh in response. A laugh that is bitten off into a sharp gasp as Nesta’s wandering hands find skin beneath the silk of her dress.

She loves this dress, the way it clings to her wife’s curves, shaping her and defining her while at the same time drenching her in elegance and mystery. The way the fabric moves with her body makes it impossible to pin her down, impossible to find any solid edge to catch a hold of. Her wife is molten, liquid that flows where and as it will, free as smoke that can never be caught or held against its will. Except for her. Her wife. For her alone she will be fixed and permanent and _hers_.

The thing she loves most about this dress though is how obliging the material is when her fingers find the slit in the thigh. It parts with a delight invitation, coaxing her to explore further, urging her hands to seek the warm, smooth skin they seek. “Nes-“ Mor begins hoarsely, her eyes closing as she leans back more firmly against her body, allowing her to support a little more of her weight as her legs tremble in anticipation.

Nesta huffs a soft breath against her skin when she finds a lace barrier blocking her path. “That won’t do,” she murmurs, easing the thin fabric aside to ease between Mor’s folds. Mor gasps, her head resting against Nesta’s shoulder, her eyes closed, her lips slightly part as a faint, delicious whine spreads through them both.

“Nes,” Mor groans in warning, gesturing around at the crowded dance floor but she just laughs darkly and continues with what she’s doing. She picked her spot well and she knew that Mor has been desperate for her, has been able to scent the faint tang of her arousal since she discovered her lack of undergarments in their booth and she can’t resist her. The music has built to a shattering crescendo and no-one is watching the way their bodies move, closer than any other couple, each person has eyes only for their partner and all Nesta can do is watch Mor as her eyes flutter open and reveal the pupils that have burst wide, split open to spill into the rich caramel gold that usually fills her gaze by lust and hunger.

The last note of the song echoes through the hall along with the applause and together they mask the moan that Nesta swallows with delight as her teasing becomes more intense to the point that she can’t control herself any longer.  

As the song ends Mor’s eyes flash and glitter with wicked hunger and she grabs Nesta’s wrist, tugging her hand away from where it still wanders between her legs. With a rough snarl that sends any in their way skittering out of her path, Mor takes Nesta’s hand and drags her towards the back of the room, pushing her back into a shadowed alcove, her eyes consumed by her need for her.

*****

Pressing her against the smooth dark wood of the wall with her body Mor braces both hands above Nesta’s head pinning her down, blocking her from view of any that might pass this secluded spot. Mor tilts her head slightly to one side, studying her, the untamed hunger that shines in those stunning blue-gray eyes, the devilish little smirk that tugs at her lips and she lets out a low hiss.

“You planned this,” she says slowly, softly and she doesn’t fail to note the triumph that flashes in her wife’s eyes at that.

Mor growls low, leaning in and tilting Nesta’s chin up, giving her access to her throat which she begins to kiss. Slowly, trailing a tender necklace of kisses across it, sucking on all the right spots, biting at the soft skin until Nesta’s hands grab her hips and jolt her body harder against hers, she marvel’s at her wife’s cunning.

“Agreeing to come with me tonight,” she says, nibbling gently at Nesta’s ear. “Bringing that damned book and sitting with Amren all night,” she says, her voice lowering to a growl as one hand slips from the wall and starts pushing the skirt of Nesta’s dress out of her way. “Ignoring me,” she says, this a definite snarl. “Making me work all night to get your attention, pretending you weren’t interested and all this time...”

 Her fingers find their mark, sliding between Nesta’s slick folds and it’s an effort to remain standing, an effort not to groan as she feels how wet she is. “All this time,” she repeats, struggling to find the thread of her conversation again as her self control slips. She compensates by making slow circles at Nesta’s centre, not quite where she wants her but enough to make her gasp and bite back a moan. “You were planning this, knowing this would drive me insane, that as soon as I felt this,” she drags her finger slowly through the wetness pooled between her thighs to emphasise her point and Nesta whimpers.

Leaning down again, Mor presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to her neck, biting down a little harder than before and causing Nesta to whimper. “You filthy little-“

Nesta cuts her off with a rough kiss, burying her hand in Mor’s thick golden hair and pulling her hard against her. Her lips part for her tongue and Mor can’t help the faint whimper that she presses into her mouth, her arms going slack, falling away from her as she lets herself sink in to the kiss.

“You love it,” Nesta purrs in her ear and Mor snaps.

Grabbing Nesta and pulling her hard against her she winnows them home. They vanish into nothingness as one, their beings blending together as they’re consumed by mist and smoke and they reform in their bedroom. Mor’s lips find Nesta’s once more as they allow themselves to fall, tumbling from empty space and onto their bed in a confused tangle of soft silk sheets and wicked laughter.

***


End file.
